


My feet are aching, your back is pretty tired

by FolleDeJoie



Series: Diarmute AU Week 2020 Bois [2]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Allusions to Violence, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Brief Sexual Content, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Virus, love doesn't have a time limit, not too sure how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25462201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FolleDeJoie/pseuds/FolleDeJoie
Summary: Prompt Fill for Diarmute AU Week 2020- Apocalypse"David’s fingers drummed over the steering wheel, and the steady rhythm devolved into disjointed tapping as he approached his destination. He observed the abandoned houses that lined the roads, their wooden shutters and doors hanging off their hinges or ripped off completely. Some of them were only blackened bones of what was once someone’s home.Over time, and as stability crept back towards their lives, the efforts had slowly migrated to the smaller towns. The process had been going on for years, but there was still so much devastation that he doubted it would be finished in his lifetime. Maybe ever."
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Diarmute AU Week 2020 Bois [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844269
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	My feet are aching, your back is pretty tired

The old truck rumbled beneath him as he drove, jerking every so often over potholes that would never get fixed. The deserted road stretched on in front of him, the outline of the city walls a hazy mirage in the midday sun.

David’s fingers drummed over the steering wheel, and the steady rhythm devolved into disjointed tapping as he approached his destination. He observed the abandoned houses that lined the roads, their wooden shutters and doors hanging off their hinges or ripped off completely. Some of them were only blackened bones of what was once someone’s home.

The clean-up effort had been mostly concentrated on the cities, the government prioritising the areas where the population was the most condensed. He could understand why: the need for safety and sanitation was paramount in the early days, and with so many people in one place, the smallest incident could escalate like wildfire. Over time, and as stability crept back towards their lives, the efforts had slowly migrated to the smaller towns. The process had been going on for years, but there was still so much devastation that he doubted it would be finished in his lifetime. Maybe ever.

Their own small farmhouse lay deep enough in the country, isolated from the rest of the world but close enough to the nearest town, that they hadn’t had many run-ins at first. The only reason he’d heard about the infection in the first place was from the frantic radio broadcasts that his wireless had picked up on.

It had only been a few years since they’d first boarded up the windows and stockpiled their food, the radio-waves spewing out zealot calls of the apocalypse interspersed with intermittent news bulletins from the government. No one had believed it when seven months later they finally took control of the situation, aid from other countries that flocked in once the borders opened again. Everyone had spent most of those months scared out of their minds, living off tins and foraging for scraps, some even drawn to other deplorable means of survival once starvation set in. To hear that there would finally be stable rationing was a balm over what remained of their scared nation, and the first tentative hints of a return to normalcy crawled their way back.

Despite this, he had yet to un-board the windows.

His stomach roiled unpleasantly as he pulled up at the main gate, showing the officer in the fortified booth his credentials and permission slip. The other man was impassive, almost bored as he glanced over the papers and pulled out his stamps.

“Purpose of visit?” He questioned, and David cleared his dry throat.

“…Family.”

“How long are you planning on staying?”

“Not long.”

“Most recent exposure?”

David paused, thinking back on the last time he’d shot his rifle. “A year.”

The officer seemed satisfied and David took the papers as they were handed to him, slipping them back into the glove compartment. The metal gates buzzed and clunked as they opened, and his hands clenched on the wheel as he made his way into the concrete jungle.

It had been a long time since he’d been inside a hospital. Well, one that was in working order. He’d forgotten the harsh light of the LED’s, the pungent aroma of antiseptic and bleach covering up the unsightly stink of illness and death. The doctor that led him through the semi-crowded hallways was pleasant enough, asking after his own health and what his location was like. He answered as best as he could ( _isolated, self-sufficient, defended by himself and a few others_ ) and the doctor didn’t seem phased by his curt answers. His palms felt clammy, shirt too tight around his chest as they approached the boldly signposted QUARANTINE WARD. There were guards posted outside the doors in hazmat suits, heavy weapons slung over their shoulders and ready to draw in an instant.

The doctor nodded to the men and swiped his card over the lock, the loud buzzing echoing through the area as they stepped through.

“I’m sure you’ve been briefed on what the process involves, but I wanted to know if you’ve got any questions. Did you read through the pamphlets you were sent?” The doctor asked as they strode through the hallway. David’s eyes roved over the thick, sterile glass on either side that kept them separated from another thick layer of glass and steel. He could see nurses wearing varying degrees of protective gear, slipping through heavy doors and some talking amongst themselves. Everything seemed clinical, business as usual, and David frowned when he heard someone laugh.

“I read them.” He replied stiffly, and the doctor nodded, seemingly non-plussed at his lack of questioning. They rounded the corner and David almost ran into the other man as he stopped in front of a non-descript room.

The doctor seemed hesitant, clicking the pen in his hands nervously as he regarded him with something closing in on pity.

“It’s always refreshing to see someone who cares enough to look after their loved ones, but you have to know…” The doctor cleared his throat. “… that this won’t be easy, and it won’t be forever. I need you to understand that if his health starts to deteriorate, or when he starts showing symptoms, then it’s necessary for you to-”

“I read the pamphlets, sir.” David interrupted, eyes fixed on the locked door and his hands clenching where he had them shoved into his jacket pockets. “I know.”

The doctor smiled momentarily, clapping him on the shoulder in a show of solidarity that only served in tensing the muscles even further. There was a brief moment between the doctor turning the handle and the door opening that David had the wild urge to run back to his truck, pretend that he’d never received the call or the pamphlets, pretend that everything was fine and his world wasn’t in ruins. He was ashamed at himself for the thought, no matter how brief, and he braced himself as the door opened and he stepped through.

His knees buckled when he finally saw him: Diarmuid, sat on the hospital bed in the same clothes that he’d worn the day that he’d travelled into the city a fortnight prior, talking quietly with the nurse who was busy taking his vitals. The heavy layers of protective gear she was wearing, much more than the other nurses he had seen, brought forth the bizarre memory of the UFO and alien comics he’d read as a child: something inhuman, sterile and constrained.

The young man perched on the bed was paler than usual, but his honey brown curls and the softly accented lilt to his voice were the same. He wanted to believe that the doctors had been wrong, that there was nothing wrong with him because he looked _healthy_ , he seemed fine and healthy and-

Diarmuid turned towards him, his beautiful smile stretching over his soft pink lips as he caught sight of him. There was a gash on the side of his eyebrow that was taped shut with buttery bandages, light blue and yellow bruising around the wound. His breath caught in throat as he saw that one of his usually rich chocolate eyes had a milky grey hue to it, corpse-like.

He hadn’t realised that he’d been stood frozen to the spot until he saw that gorgeous smile falter, brows furrowing and shoulders drooping as if his strings had been cut. Diarmuid bit his bottom lip, hands fidgeting nervously where they were resting on his thighs, and David’s stomach turned as he noticed the large bandage peeking out from under the rolled shirtsleeve.

“David…?” Diarmuid asked hesitantly, barely above a whisper as if preparing himself for the worst, and _God_ -

The voice that he’d missed so much, that he thought he’d never get to hear again; it kick-started him and in a few strides he had crossed the room and gathered the younger man into his arms. They wound around him tightly, face pushing into his neck, and he let out a ragged exhale as he felt the slender arms reach around and grip at the back of his jacket.

He knew he was probably crushing him with the strength of his embrace, but in that moment he didn’t care; he needed to feel him, alive and breathing and safe in his arms where he should’ve always been. He _never_ should have let him go to the city in the first place, should’ve been with him while visited his old friends, and it was _all his fault_ … He leaned back just enough to push their foreheads together, large hands coming up to cradle his cheeks and brush through his curls. He felt the tell-tale trickle of tear tracks under his thumbs and he frowned, brushing his lips to the cold skin of his hairline. Diarmuid’s shoulders were shaking beneath him, his hands migrating to grip at the lapels of his jean jacket as if to tether them together; like he was scared that David would turn around and walk out of the hospital without him.

“ _David_ …” Diarmuid whispered, voice thick with tears and the broader man let out a wounded sound as he shook his head. He leaned down to finally press their lips together, and the younger man sobbed at the light touch. David frowned at the chill of his usually heated lips, but they were still just as soft and just as inviting as the first time he’d kissed them.

He could’ve stayed in that bubble forever, his relief at having found him loosening the tense muscles in his shoulders and releasing the heavy weight of dread and despair in his heart, but a pointed cough from the doctor had them breaking apart. David’s hand stroked the nape of Diarmuid’s neck soothingly, his other cradling over Diarmuid’s own hand where it was still gripping the front of his jacket.

“Has nurse Jackson explained everything to you, Diarmuid?” The doctor asked, not unkindly. Diarmuid sniffed and nodded, throwing a shaky smile over to where the hazmat bearing caretaker was still standing. “And do you think you’ll be alright by yourself?”

Diarmuid bit his lip and turned to face David, searching his eyes for… something, and nodding when he apparently found it.

“I won’t be by myself, doctor.” He said softly, and the pieces of David’s previously broken heart heaved themselves together in his chest.

The drive back to the farmhouse was subdued.

They barely spoke, Diarmuid only asking over what had been happening for the time that he’d been away, how the animals were faring, if his father was alright. David answered as best he could, skirting around the topics of his family and what had happened in the couple of weeks that he’d been away. He knew that the younger man was anxious to get home, nervous about what he might find there when he did, and he wanted to tell him but… he just, didn’t know what to say.

Now that they had reunited and that heavy chain around his chest had relaxed its hold, it let loose the other emotions that he’d been bottling away since Diarmuid had been gone. The last couple of weeks had been… challenging.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t pretend to be okay with what had happened. He didn’t want his own selfish thoughts pouring out and the last thing he’d ever want to do was upset him, especially after whatever he’d gone through.

No. It was better to bite his tongue and sort through things before saying something that he might regret.

The scenery around them changed quicker than he’d anticipated, houses becoming few and far between until it was only farmlands as far as the eye could see. Diarmuid had slumped in his seat for most of the journey, content to stare out of the window and lost in his own thoughts. It was when they’d passed the weathered old sign with the farm’s name on it that he sat up straight, fingers twisting and twirling at the hem of his jacket. When the darker man glanced over, he noticed that the cuticles of his nails were slightly blackened.

He looked back at the stretch of road before them. They’d just entered the woodlands, only a quarter of an hour until they finally got back home, and he knew that the younger man was nervous. Scared at what he might find there. Without turning his attention from the windshield, he reached one hand over, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently. The relieved sigh and the way Diarmuid brought their joined hands up to brush his lips against his scarred knuckles had his heart skipping.

“Whatever happens,” he found the courage to speak, tongue heavy in his mouth, “I won’t leave you.”

He glanced over briefly and saw Diarmuid’s soft smile, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses he wore, but David didn’t need to see them to know what he was thinking.

He was thinking the same.

Over the next few days, things settled down on the farm. After the emotional reunion with his father-

_“You idiot!” Ciaran had shouted, fiercely cradling the young man in his arms. “I told you- I **told you** to be careful-”_

_“I know.” Diarmuid had moaned wretchedly, burrowing into the hug and holding on tightly. “I know Daddy, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”_

_Ciaran had shaken his head, pressing sharp kisses into his son’s hair._

_“ **My boy** ,” He had sobbed, tears spilling from his tightly clenched shut eyes. He pulled back and cupped his face, eyes flicking over the bandages around his eyebrow. His expression crumpled in misery as he took in his glazed milky eye where once had been deep brown. “My precious boy, it’ll be alright…”_

-he spent a lot of time in his room: looking through his old photos and books, sorting through his closet, listening to CD’s on his ancient Walkman. Sometimes, David would lean on his door frame and watch as his head bopped to the music seeping through his earphones, singing under his breath as he rummaged through his drawers or wrote in his journal. David could let himself believe that everything was normal, as if nothing had changed and he’d never gone to the city in the first place.

But reality had a habit of seeping its way in through the cracks: when the younger man joined them at the dinner table in the evenings, sunglasses firmly perched on his face and plate empty always; when he did the dishes with his sleeves rolled up, the large bandage on his forearm peeking out. He laughed and joked like he had before, but there was a heaviness to his words that seeped through.

Rua and Cathal had visited from their cabin a few miles away, people carrier laden with bags and home brewed beer with the intent to stick around and help David and Ciaran with the farm while they looked after Diarmuid.

(David had had to excuse himself to the guest bathroom for a few minutes after hearing this, blinking back tears and biting his hand to stifle the embarrassing sounds he made, before heading back out to help them with their bags.)

Since they’d returned from the city he realised that, aside from the car journey, they hadn’t spent much time alone together. Ciaran always seemed to hover around his son, asking him if he needed anything and making sure that he was regularly changing his bandages. The one and only time that Ciaran had tried to help him change the large gauze on his forearm, Diarmuid had flinched and held his arm protectively to his chest. He’d mumbled out an apology and quickly fled back to his own room, emerging the next morning with a bashful expression and a fresh bandage.

He hadn’t offered an explanation, merely walked over to where his father was setting the table and hugged him long enough for his toast to go cold.

David could understand Ciaran’s need to be around the younger man, of course he could. And he wanted to be around him too: wanted to show him the newest lambs that had been born in his absence, the small changes he’d made to his own living quarters; wanted to listen to him read his favourite books out loud as they rested in the shade of their favourite tree.

But he… He couldn’t. Not yet.

He noticed the way Diarmuid’s eyes followed his movements whenever he left whichever room he was in; he’d seen the disappointed glances and questioning looks when David suddenly had somewhere to be, no time to talk. All he wanted to do was hold him close, kiss away those thoughts, prove to him how deep his affections lay.

But every time he wanted to reach out and act on his feelings, his stomach would churn, and his lungs would tighten painfully in his chest. He _couldn’t_.

It all came to a head one evening long after the table had been cleared and the other men had gone to bed. David hadn’t been able to sleep, thoughts swirling and contorting as he lay wide awake in his bed. When he’d finally admitted defeat, he’d quietly padded down the stairs and into the kitchen to grab a coffee. He noticed that a soft lamplight was coming from the living room and he made his way through to switch it off, startling when he saw Diarmuid sat on the sofa.

He looked like he was wound tight, sitting up straight and staring at the blank television screen. Before he could ask if he was alright, Diarmuid turned to look at him.

“You’re a liar.” Diarmuid stated abruptly, and the hurt and anger that seeped into his words had David freezing on the threshold. His words stung, and the older man looked at him in confusion.

Diarmuid still wore his sunglasses, even in the soft glow of the ceiling light, but David didn’t need to see his eyes to pick up on other tell-tale signs: there was fire in his frown, clenched hands that rested on his knees, slightly hunched shoulders. David hesitated before carefully moving to sit on the opposite sofa, staring at his hands.

“I’ve never lied to you,” David stated. The sky is blue. The earth is round. David would never lie to him.

Diarmuid scowled at him, jaw tensing. He let out a cruel bark of incredulous laughter.

“Then what the hell do you call _this_?” He gestured between them.

David frowned, knowing that he’d missed something important. He glanced back at the floor and this time Diarmuid’s laughter bordered on a sob.

“You… You can’t even look at me anymore. Do you…” he paused, and when he spoke again his voice was thick with emotion. “Do you hate me that much?”

The darker man’s head shot up, and he was already shaking his head. His hand reached out of its own accord across the small coffee table between them and rested firmly on one of his trembling fists.

“ _Never_ ,” he growled out. Diarmuid bit his lip and jerked his hand away.

“Then why are you _leaving me_?!” He cried out, and it hit David like a punch to the gut. He blinked and drew his hand back towards him. The younger man’s shoulders trembled and there were tear tracks slipping from beneath his dark sunglasses.

“I…” David started, licking his dry lips. “I’m still here, what…”

Diarmuid sobbed and brought his hands up to hide his face, elbows resting on his knees. David could feel his heart creaking at the sight. He wanted nothing more than to comfort him, the way that Diarmuid had flinched from his touch…

“Ever since I got back, you’ve barely even looked at me… and I know I’m not,” he sniffed miserably, wiping at his nose with his sleeve, “I’m not the same as I was, but I can’t help that now. I can’t fix it. And I get it if you… if you don’t want to touch me, I get it, okay? But I… I don’t know how long I’ll be like this and I just… just…” he sobbed and buried his hands in his hair, tugging at it roughly. “ _I miss you_ David. If you don’t want me that’s fine, but don’t pull away from me…”

David couldn’t take it any longer. He was off the sofa and kneeling on the floor beside him in a heartbeat, taking those slender wrists in his hands and prying them from their painful grip in his wayward locks. Diarmuid’s sunglasses had slipped from his face and he had his eyes clenched shut, tears spilling from the corners and trailing down his pale skin.

David whined low in his throat and surged forward, pressing their lips together desperately. Diarmuid sobbed into the kiss but David persisted, letting go of his wrists to cup his cheeks. He latched onto him, less of a kiss and more of an anchor, and tried to pour as much emotion as he could between them. Diarmuid’s hands were still trembling as they grabbed the nape of his neck, keeping him close.

David broke away only to breathe and rain kisses over the corner of his mouth, his chin, his cheek, circling back to his lips for more.

“ _I’ll always want you_ ,” he whispered, voice hoarse when he broke away once again, leaning their foreheads together. “Do you understand? I’ll _always_ want you, Diarmuid…”

Tears prickled in the corner of his eyes, but he focussed on getting his words straight in his mind.

“Every single day I wake up and you… you’re everything to me. I… Diarmuid, I’ve loved you for _years_ ,” Diarmuid gasped brokenly at this, face scrunching up as if in pain, but David pushed on with renewed desperation, “and that’s _never_ going to change. Every day I wake up and wonder what you’re doing, who you’re with, if you’re thinking of me. I go mad thinking of ways to keep you happy. I love you, and I’ll keep loving you even after I’m put in the ground beside you…”

He let his tears finally slip free, the agony he’d tried to keep contained pouring out and choking him.

“I just thought we’d have more _time_.” He whispered harshly, voice breaking as he let the reality finally sink in.

He wanted to wake up next to him every morning for the rest of his life; wanted to eat the same boring oatmeal that he loved to make for him, and complain about the weather, and drive them to the fields at midnight to watch the shooting stars. He wanted Diarmuid to tease him about his grey hair and listen to him complain about his own wrinkles, sit on the porch sipping on iced tea that they’d brewed together.

He had wanted and planned and prepared, and with one disastrous encounter their entire future had been snuffed out.

He had never been able to hide anything from Diarmuid, especially not his emotions, and he’d thought he’d been doing him a favour by staying away. It had burned him up inside. He was angry, and miserable, but above all he was _terrified_. The knowledge that there’d come a day when he’d wake up and Diarmuid would be… he’d…

The tears slid down his cheeks and he pulled Diarmuid closer, burying his face in his neck much like he’d done at the hospital.

David wouldn’t survive it.

The pamphlets he had received had contained all the information he could possibly need, and then some. When they’d appeared in his post box, government mandated thick envelope heavy in his hands, he’d put them on the kitchen counter and ignored them for as long as he could. It was only when he’d walked through a few days later and found Ciaran sat at the table, pages spread out around him and a large glass of whiskey perched in his fingertips, that he’d conceded that it was time. Ciaran had glanced at him, red-eyed with heavy bags under them, and pulled out the chair next to him.

They sat in silence, the pages creasing and crinkling loudly, hearts heavy as they took it all in.

Some cases progressed quicker than others, depending on the patient’s initial level of health and fitness at time of exposure. They varied between two and six weeks, though in some rare cases it could be longer. The signs to watch out for were sudden change in personality, mood swings, tissue deterioration, sleepwalking, and most importantly, violent tendencies. They should call in with their appointed doctor every week to report any changes. It was mandatory that they call at the first signs of any violent behaviour, so that their local police department could escort them to the nearest Care Centre.

David had driven past the Care Centre a few days before Diarmuid’s return, idling on the side of the road. The building stood solitary, a looming concrete presence jarring the fields around it. The barbed steel fencing around it and the few personnel he could see making their rounds showed it for what it truly was. He drove off, mind made up that he’d never drive up to it again.

For the most part, Diarmuid seemed uncannily normal. As the first week stumbled into the second, Diarmuid’s restlessness drew him out of his room and into helping with the chores around the farm. The younger man could usually be found either hanging around the animal pens, or wrist deep in his vegetable garden. His father had brought him a cold orange juice one day while he was weeding the tomatoes, and Diarmuid had given him a strained smile as he reminded him _I can’t have it, Daddy, but it means a lot_.

After their emotional evening, David had made a point of once again sticking to Diarmuid like a second shadow. Whether he was mucking out the sheep pens or watering his cucumbers, David was there to help him with his shovelling or to hold up the heavy watering can.

Diarmuid had cornered him in the kitchen one afternoon with a nervous bounce in his step, showing him the tape recorder that he’d found stashed away in the back of his closet.

“I wondered if…” he began, brushing his hair behind his ears anxiously, “if maybe we could record some things together. My Ma’ did it for Da’ before she… well, I know you like it when I read to you, and I just thought… maybe it would be nice for you to have something, when…”

He trailed off, but the unspoken truth lay in the air around them. David’s breath caught in his chest as he had nodded, knuckles white as he gripped the counter he was leaning against.

Life had mostly gone on as it always had, until the cracks in their little bubble finally started to show. Diarmuid had been helping his father in the kitchen as usual, chatting away and singing off-key to the old songs on the radio. David had been sat at the small table, watching on with a smile as he peeled the potatoes that Diarmuid had forgotten about that morning.

Ciaran was batting him away with a laugh as he stirred the beginnings of the stew he was making, keeping an eye on the amount of flour that Diarmuid was using for the dumpling recipe. The young man was still so pale, but in the soft afternoon sunshine that drifted through the kitchen window he could picture the summer tan and the rosy flush that it brought with it.

The three of them had been caught in the contagiously playful moment, spirits high and happy as they fell back into an old routine. Diarmuid had finished with his dumplings, setting the clunky and misshapen balls aside as he started chopping at the carrots his father dumped onto his chopping board with a laugh.

David had smiled at the story Diarmuid was telling them about the time he had tried to build his own skateboard out of gnarled branches when he was a child, Ciaran chiming in with the occasional remark and outsider perspective to the disastrous endeavour. The darker man had finished his potatoes, setting them aside and glancing up just in time to see Diarmuid slice through the tip of his index finger.

Panic rose in his chest as he expected all hell to break loose, screaming or crying or something, but Diarmuid kept talking to his father as if nothing had happened. He wasn’t even looking at the board as the sharp kitchen knife sliced again and blackened blood oozed out, and David leapt into action.

He pushed his chair back noisily, the other men jumping and turning to see the commotion as David rushed over. He grabbed a tea towel and crowded into Diarmuid’s space, knocking the knife from his hands and grabbing the wounded hand. Diarmuid looked confused until he looked back down at the chopping board, eyes wide and body stiffening at the sight of dark brown thick splotches of old blood and two slim pieces of flesh that lay beside it.

“Jesus Christ…!” Ciaran exclaimed, fetching the first aid box from the top of the fridge. “Run it under the water, lad!”

“I…I’m fine, I think it’s just a scratch.” Diarmuid said shakily even as David led him over to the sink. He gently relieved the pressure he’d used to stop the bleeding, unravelling the towel gently to see the damage.

He winced at what he saw: the knife had gone straight through the tip of his finger, cracking off the nail in the process. He could see a hint of bone, dark red flesh clinging to where it protruded. There was barely any blood, and what little he could see was dark and thickly seeping from the wound where normally there would be a flood.

He gently pulled Diarmuid’s hand under the cold water expecting a flinch or a hiss, but Diarmuid was silent. The taller man looked over to find that he was staring at his hand in horror and confusion, but there was no sign of pain. Diarmuid glanced over at him, mouth parted and eyebrows raised in shock.

When Ciaran had taken over and bandaged the wound to his best abilities (and hugged him tightly, making sure he was alright), Diarmuid had nodded his thanks and mentioned something about the animals, cradling his hand to his chest as he disappeared out the back door.

David made to follow but Ciaran halted him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Give him some time, David.” The elder said, patting his back and moving towards the sink and reaching for the industrial bleach.

David frowned, looking back at the door. _We haven't got it._

_“David…” the pale man breathed out, bare hips pushing against his arousal. “please David…”_

_David groaned and pushed his face into the crook of his slender neck, taking a deep breath as his hips thrust up of their own accord. Diarmuid cupped his head and drew him back towards his lips, both gasping as they melted into the kiss. It was slow, tongues gliding sensuously together in a way they hadn’t done for weeks. Diarmuid sucked on the older man’s tongue in an obscene parody of what he would do to his cock, and David’s hands clenched where they were gripping his thighs._

_He was so alive and he writhed in his lap, hands stroking through his hair and smoothing over his broad shoulders, whining and moaning as David’s teeth grazed over his plump bottom lip before diving back in for another taste._

_Their bodies melted together as they kissed and slid against one another, David’s heart pounding as he broke away and sucked at the slender expanse of his neck. Diarmuid threw his head back, breath catching in his throat as calloused hands trailed up and down his slim waist, slipping over his hip to cup between his legs._

_He frowned when his fingers trailed over the soft flesh, expecting the younger man to at least be half-hard with the way he was reacting._

_“I want you inside me…” Diarmuid whispered, nudging their noses together delicately. David exhaled roughly, running a hand through his hair as the younger man rocked his hips. His erection slid between his cheeks and the sudden friction was intense enough to have him twitching even through his foggy thoughts._

_He blinked his eyes open and groaned at the sight of all that bare skin, dark marks blossoming on his neck and around his nipple where David’s mouth had latched on. His gaze was half-lidded, and David could see that his other eye had started taking on the same milky hue as the other. The cut that he’d arrived home with three weeks ago was still open, flesh darkened where it peeked out through the medical tape._

_He glanced down at where Diarmuid was straddling him, frowning at the sight of his flaccid cock._

_“Do you…” He cleared his throat, voice low with desire, “can you even feel this?”_

_Diarmuid bit his lip, moving to press their cheeks together and wrap his arms around his neck. When he spoke it tickled his ear, sending shivers down his spine._

_“I need you… can you just… pretend?” he whispered, and David looped his arms around him, holding on to him tightly._

_“I… I don’t know…” he started, cutting off when Diarmuid ground against him and shushed him gently._

_“Please David… I need this” he whined, hands raking through his curls and tingling over his scalp, some strands catching on his bandaged finger. “Let me have this.”_

_David took a deep breath to steady his nerves, fingers stroking over the cold skin beneath them to distract him from the sudden stinging in his eyes. He nodded roughly and pushed into the deep kiss he received in return._

He wasn’t sure what had woken him, but the blurry green light of the alarm clock on his bedside table told him it was past two a.m. For a moment he thought maybe he’d had a nightmare, but he couldn’t feel the usual pressure in his head or aching in his muscles from where he thrashed about in his sleep. He closed his eyes, shifting in the soft sheets to dry and drift off, when he heard the sharp creak of the loose floorboard at the top of the staircase. His eyes shot open and he held his breath, listening to the soft thuds of someone making their way downstairs.

He was halfway convinced it was one of the other men getting up for a midnight snack before he heard the tell-tale squeak of the hinges on the front door, followed by a small click. For a few minutes he lay on his back, debating whether to follow, before frowning and pulling back the covers. He moved through the darkness to slip into his boots and tug on his jacket as he quietly followed in their footsteps, shutting the door as gently as he could behind him.

The summer night wasn’t too cold, but he felt goosebumps over his exposed chest. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, aided in part by the half-moon than lingered in the sky. He could hear the crickets and nocturnal insects chirping and clicking in the grass, an owl hooting in the nearby thicket. The animals were snuffling in their pens on the other side of the clearing, the sheep bleating loudly into the night air and-

Wait. That couldn’t be right.

He jogged over to the small barn where they kept the pens, concern creasing his brow as he noticed that one of the wooden doors was slightly ajar. The bleating was shrill, wailing and cutting sharply through the night air. Without hesitation, he threw open the door and stepped inside.

The moon illuminated the sheep as they ran anxious circles around their enclosure, skirting away from a figure kneeling in the pen. David reached out for the closest tool with steady hands, gripping the shovel as his eyes adjusted to what he was seeing. There were crunching sounds, ripping and tearing, and the cloying scent of iron and gore had his nose wrinkling.

He crept closer, wincing at the loud bleats of the panicked herd that were packed tightly to each other. When he was close enough to make out the details of what he was seeing, he felt bile crawl up his throat.

One of the eldest and the slowest of the flock lay twitching on straw covered ground, eyes glazed over and caught in its death throes. Her neck was twisted unnaturally and there was a hole in her abdomen that Diarmuid had shoved his hands into. He ripped out a dark mass, taking a large bite and gnashing his teeth on the meat with a groan.

David’s knees were shaky as he stepped closer, covering his mouth with his sleeve briefly to block out the stench. Diarmuid still hadn’t noticed his approach, too invested in slurping down his meal. He only reacted when David gently called out his name, whipping around to stare at him. Even in the darkness his milky eyes stood out, no traces of brown to be seen. His face was covered in blood, dripping down his chin and over his hands and he kept chewing. There was a vacancy to him that had the bigger man terrified.

 _This is it_ , he thought, world shattering around him. _This is where I lose him_.

He dropped to his knees, hand clenching on the shovel by his side. Diarmuid looked at the mass in his hands slowly, dropping in carelessly to the ground as he crawled over to him.

His mind raced as he remembered the last time he’d been confronted with an infected; how he’d aimed at its head, missed, beaten it to death with the butt of his rifle. He’d been protecting his home, the people he loved, and he knew what he had to do but…

“Diarmuid…” he whispered, letting the shovel drop and reaching a trembling hand towards him.

Diarmuid stopped in front of him, ignoring the outstretched hand and inching his face closer. David could smell the hot iron of fresh blood and his stomach churned. Diarmuid’s lips brushed his neck, inhaling deeply and David took the opportunity to wrap his arms around him and seal them together. Diarmuid grunted and stumbled into him, and David pressed a kiss into his hair.

He felt those sticky lips moving against the artery in his neck. He tensed in anticipation of what was to come, bracing himself for pain, but Diarmuid merely groaned against him.

He felt hands reaching up to weakly grab at his back, the nails that hadn’t already fallen out gripping tightly into the denim.

“…David?” He whispered weakly, and the older man sobbed in relief. He let himself fold around the trembling man in his arms, hiding his tears in his soft curls.

“- _is he doing? It’s been nearly a month and he still hasn’t developed symptoms_?” the voice was quiet and tinny through the receiver, but if he strained he could pick out the words.

“For sure doctor, he’s had a few” Ciaran mumbled, massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “But they’ve been mild enough not to have us worried.”

David stood at the foot of the staircase, out of sight as he listened in. He felt guilt and shame weigh heavy for his eavesdropping, but he had to _know_. He glanced up towards the bedroom where he had left Diarmuid resting as he cleaned up the mess he’d made in the stables.

“ _That’s great news, Mr Lynch, however I do feel that it’s in everyone’s best interests to let someone come check up on him-”_

“Are you saying I can’t take care of my own son?”

“ _No, Mr Lynch, not at all, I have every faith in your abilities. It’s just that… we understand this is an emotional time for you and your family, and we’ve had cases in the past_ -”

“Oh have you now?”

“- _where the family members found it hard to pick up on the signs in time. I understand that he’s your son and you want what’s best for him, I understand that; but in letting him come home you agreed to let the state step in when you felt that he was becoming a danger.”_

“He’s my _son,_ ” Ciaran half shouted into the receiver, “and I’m the only one that’ll be looking after him. I’ve looked after him his whole life and I’ll not-” his voice cracked, exhaling sharply “I’ll not be stopping any time soon.”

He took a deep breath, leather squeaking as he leaned back in his desk chair.

“If he… if he goes that way, we’ll deal with it. Just… don’t send anyone for the while, I don’t want him worrying more than he has to.”

“ _I’ll contact the local law enforcement and schedule a visit for the end of the week. That’ll give you a few more days of peace and quiet. But you must be prepared for the future, Mr Lynch-”_

David couldn’t listen anymore. He swallowed the ball in his throat, climbing the stairs and turning the bedroom door handle as softly as he could.

Diarmuid was lying on his side facing away from the door, quiet as the grave. David flicked the lock on the door and stepped out of his boots, tugging off his dirty clothes and dropping them haphazardly near the laundry basket. The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed in, tugging the covers up over his ears and curling his body around the other’s. He wound an arm over his waist and rested it over his heart, shuffling him backwards until they were flushed together.

He took a deep breath when he was finally settled, pressing his lips to the slither of skin at the back of his neck above his shirt. A strange feeling bubbled in his chest as he realised that he didn’t smell the same anymore; below the fabric detergent his father used and the soap they had used to wash off the gore and dirt of, there was something acrid and cloying that lingered in his throat. Rotting fruit only fit for the houseflies.

His thumb stroked over his sternum, and when he closed his eyes he could make out the sluggish rhythm of the organ that lay underneath.

They lay still and silent for a long time, listening to the sounds of the rest of the house waking up. He knew that Diarmuid was still awake with how tense his shoulders were beneath his lips. After a while he started to settle down, his body softening and slotting even more comfortably into place in his arms. The hand with the bandaged finger slowly traced over his forearm and laced their fingers together.

“Are you alright?” David finally whispered, and Diarmuid snorted humourlessly.

“You really don’t pull your punches, do you?” He replied, and the older man buried a barely there smile in the back of his shirt. Diarmuid was quiet for a while, and David could almost hear the cogs turning.

“No,” he finally said, bringing their joined hands towards his lips to press them to his calloused fingers. “No, I’m not alright.”

David exhales shakily, nestling closer to the man he loves. He would give anything in the world to fix things, would switch places in a heartbeat.

“I was buying presents for you both.” He continues out of nowhere, and the older man made a curious sound. “When I was… bitten. My friends told me about this place in the city that sold the chocolate that my Da’ used to get before the factories shut down, and I thought it would be nice to…”

He chuckled, bringing a hand up to wipe at his eyes.

“They told me that someone had gone into the zones, been infected, hadn’t told anyone about it for weeks. He’d just… gone through the motions, alone and afraid. He’d tried to lock himself inside his apartment, and it was a… a fucking burglar who’d broken in and…” His shoulders trembled and David held him tighter, throwing his leg over him to keep him grounded.

“Everything happened so fast, but all I can remember is thinking ‘all these years… I’ve survived all these years, and I’m going to die over a _chocolate bar’_.” He laughed, a harsh and ugly noise that broke his heart. He kept on laughing until it morphed into heaving sobs, curling tightly into himself. David held him through it, hushing him softly and rubbing his chest as gently as he could as the boy broke down in his arms.

When he had eventually calmed down, sobs dissipating over time and replaced with miserable sniffling, David was still holding him.

“I’m so _scared_ , David” he whispered brokenly, and David nodded into the back of his neck.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone…”

“You _won’t_ ” David whispered firmly. “You won’t, sweetheart.”

“Promise me.” Diarmuid hushed out, clinging to his hand desperately. “Promise me you’ll end it when I...when...”

David squeezed his eyes shut, heart pounding through his despair. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t _fair_. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare and be wrapped around the man he loves, rosy cheeked and healthy and smiling. He wanted to find whoever started the chain of events and beat them to death with his bare hands. He wanted to scream and tear his voice to shreds and never wake up if it meant waking up to a world without with him.

He ignored the words and shushed him, stroking his hands through his damp hair.

The sky was blue. The earth was round.

David could lie to him… maybe just once.

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily based on the amazing 2015 film Maggie which I highly recommend if you need a good cry x I've tried to tag as much as possible without spoiling the fic? but let me know if there's other tags you'd like to see x


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